Morsel

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

A car hums, the tires rumbling over the dirt. I climb out of the offal pit and check the driveway.

Mona’s SUV.

My stomach sinks. I have to end this now, or something terrible will happen, and I refuse to let it happen to me.

Mona slinks out of the vehicle, then crosses her arms over her chest. “You haven’t answered my texts or calls,” she says.

I go around her to the front door. “Busy.”

“Busy doing what? ”

I spin around and stare at her. There’s more than a foot of height difference between us, and yet her voice—her stupidly confident voice—echoes like she’s a million times bigger than me. A monstrous giant.

I know better though. I know who I am and what she is. Even if she’s taunting me, I have the power to do the right thing. I can end this.

“What happened to your pants?” she asks, her tone full of accusation. “Your hands?”

Rabbit fur and blood are caked on my palms, and my pants are drenched in red. This is going to start another argument, isn’t it? Son of a fucking bitch.

I head to the bathroom; she trails after me. “Nothing,” I say.

“Bullshit. That’s blood!” she snarks. “You hurt someone else, didn’t you?”

I snap around. “Are you jealous?” My laughter booms through the mobile home so loudly that Mona, the usually defiant little cunt, actually shrinks back. “You’re jealous of a blood stain when you made me watch Artemis bite your neck like you were a corn on the cob?” She rolls her eyes, and I face the faucet and wash my hands. “Who the fuck knows what else you do in your free time.”

She laughs.

Hollow tension rolls over my arms and neck. What’s so fucking funny?

“You’re right,” she says. “There’s nothing about love or respect between us, is there? You signed a contract; nothing more.” She places a hand on her hip, then addresses me through the bathroom mirror. “Though you should keep in mind that our contract requires you to answer my phone calls and texts for the duration of your participation. We have an agreement, Kent. You can’t just walk away from this.”

A destructive fire simmers inside of me as I stare at her reflection in the mirror. Dust flecks the glass, the edges stained with brown rust.

Ever since I first responded to Mona’s personal ad, she’s been telling me what to do.

I’m sick of it.

“Fuck the contract,” I say.

“I’ll call a lawyer.”

“Fine,” I say. “Sue me because I won’t eat you. I’m doing this for you.” My voice is biting with frustration. “Cutting you off?—”

She spreads her legs, widening her stance, and the image of blood dripping down her thigh fills my brain. The menstrual lining. The fresh blood. My cock is hard, and my drive to end our relationship leaves my body.

No. I can do the right thing.

I turn away from her. “This is for your own good!” I shout.

She puts a hand on my back. “I trust you. Isn’t that enough?”

My head spins. She trusts me?

No. We’re going too fast. Ending this is the right thing to do. It’s not just about protecting myself from prison; I’m also protecting her. And if I want a future with her, then we have to take a break right now until I can better control my cravings.

I race into the master bedroom. “I stabbed your cervix?—”

“The doctor said it was barely a scratch. I didn’t even need stitches. Trust me, you didn’t do anything. I’ve done worse with a dildo.”

My muscles tense. A sex toy can do more damage than I can? Why does that bother me?

“Come on, Kent,” she whines.

Fury undulates inside of me, the master of this fucking puppet show. I hate that I didn’t actually damage her pussy, but I can choose to keep her safe now. I grab her head, her black hairs twisting through my fingers. Even as pain wriggles in my skull, I keep my expression blank. I don’t want her to misunderstand anything I’m saying right now.

“You don’t get it, do you? I want to eat you,” I say slowly as I stare into her deep, black pupils. “I want to eat women. I can’t do that to you or you will die. What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Oh, fuck off,” she says as she tears herself out of my hands. “You can’t tell me what to do. I can make decisions for myself, and I trust you to keep me safe.”

She bites her tongue, and tears fill her eyes, but there’s an emptiness to her expression, like she’s forcing herself to feel bad, to feel something, anything at all, for me. For us.

“Come on, love,” she says, her words quivering. “We can do this. What we have is rare. I need you. I need you for my?—”

The water in her eyes is like the bathwater at the art gallery. It’s physically real; at the same time, it’s a performance.

I don’t want to hurt her. I swear I don’t. Not emotionally nor physically.

But you do want to hurt her, my brain says. You do. You want to watch what happens when she sees you rip her nipple from her breast and swallow it like an oyster.

“I’m not a cannibal,” I whisper. I’m not sure if I’m saying it to her or to myself, and I guess that’s the point. Our whole situation is fucked. “You can find another muse. But this, Mona? Whatever this is”—I point between us—“this has got to stop. Someone’s going to get hurt, and I’d be devastated if you?—”

“What if I want to get hurt?” she says.

My dick palpitates, but my mind stays on track. “I don’t have to do this,” I say. I repeat it over and over again while she follows me to the kitchen. “I don’t have to do this. I don’t. I don’t have to do this. Control yourself, Kent. Control yourself. You don’t have to do this?—”

My morals fight for the upper hand, but my brain screams until it’s all I can hear: Why stop now? Why stop here? Why can’t you give her what she wants?

What if it’s her choice?

“You want to eat me, don’t you?” Mona asks.

I freeze, my spine frosting with ice. I face her, meeting her dead on. There’s pain in her black eyes, and I should feel sympathy for that, but my gaze wanders down. Past her pink lips. Down to her breasts. Her juicy breasts. There’s so much potential in those small sacks of fat. And down further, there’s her soft belly. She’s got so much to give, but I know myself.

I want to eat her, but I refuse to do this to her.

“Mona,” I plead. “Try to understand that I’ve held back with you, and you’ve been escalating at a pace I’m not ready for.” I rub my temple and try to change my tone as if this is what I want. “This isn’t right. Humans don’t eat humans. We’ve got brains to tell us right from wrong. We’re smarter than this. We know the consequences.”

“Are you leaving me?”

A single tear runs down her cheek. My hand twitches by my side, desperate to wipe it from her face. To taste it. To savor the salty sweetness of her sorrow.

I don’t. It’s a piece of her rolling away, wasted into nothing, because I’m doing what’s right.

“If anyone found out what we’re doing,” I start to say, “I’d probably be fired, and you’d be?—”

“Nothing would happen to me,” she snarls. “I’m an artist known for controversy.”

“You’re right. You’re unique. But to the processing plant? Guys like me are easy to find,” I say. “All you need is someone strong and willing to pretend to be a cannibal. You’re gorgeous and smart. You can have anyone. Guys like Artemis who will do whatever you want. You just have to show them how to do it the right way.”

He won’t eat her toes though, my brain says. He’s too much of a pussy for that.

Jealousy wages battle inside of me, while I force myself to act like I don’t care. I check the fridge and pull out a plastic container. The green and pink ground meat assaults my nose, the stench rotten. It’s vile, like hot roadkill mixed with sulfurous eggs, but you get used to it, and it’s better than the alternative. You can’t survive on nothing; you can survive on rotten meat.

And preparations like this—scavenging for discarded meats—aren’t just about survival. Animal meat is the closest to what I truly want sexually, and if I have the meat with me, I can make the urge go away. At least for a while.

Going back to animal meat sleeves seems so depressing after Mona though.

“I don’t want them,” Mona cries. “Those men are fake. They’re pretend. I want?—”

“You don’t want me,” I say. “You want my hunger.”

Mona’s jaw drops. Our harsh breaths fill the kitchen. The fridge’s generator hums, and her fingertips nervously scratch the countertop. She knows I’m right. It’s not about me; it’s about my obsession with eating women. It’s about her art.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say again.

“This is who you are,” she says. “Who we are. Humans are primal creatures, Kent. We may have brains that give us access to a deeper understanding of the world, but at our core, we’re animals. That’s all we are.”

I used to tell myself that every day. If I eat someone I love, it’s okay, because we’re just animals, and we need to survive. No one can blame me for that.

It’s wrong though. Mona is wrong. She’s fucking wrong. We’re not animals. We know better. We have thoughts. We make decisions. We can control ourselves beyond what a rabbit or a wolf is capable of.

My dick swells, and I lean on the cupboards in front of me to hide my growing erection. “Damn it, Mona,” I whisper.

Her fingers graze my back. “This is what we?—”

“No!” I grab her arms and lift her in the air. Her face flashes with a hint of fear, but then it’s gone, and that proves it all: she’s not scared of me, and she should be. My voice is rough with anger: “No, we’re not animals. We’re humans. We have power. Do you understand?”

I dig my nails into her arms, and she floods with tears again. This time, it’s different though. This time, there’s weight to those drops of salty water. They’re real.

My cock rises, power filling my insides. I want those real tears so fucking bad.

But I can do the right thing.

“This is not who we are,” I continue. “It’s who you are. And this—” I shove her toward the door, and she falls to the ground. “This is for your own good.”

She picks herself up, then waits for a few seconds. I stare at the ground meat on the counter. I don’t want to fuck it anymore, but I’ll force myself to fuck it if I have to. Anything to stop me from eating her.

She’s the only person who has ever taken a real interest in me, and I need to protect her.

“Get the fuck out!” I scream.

She races to the door, abandoning me.

A familiar pain rises between my ribs and wraps its fingers around my heart. This isn’t like before though. This is for Mona’s own good. I can’t tell her to stop her art project, but I can stop my participation in it.

Usually, I don’t care about right or wrong. I didn’t think about morals when it came to my mother. I didn’t care if I was breaking the rules by destroying that bitch’s phone at the processing plant. And I sure as fuck didn’t care if the butcher caught me between the garbage bins.

For once, I can do the right thing.

I have to do it for her.